


All's Fair

by sullenhearts



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 06:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14826866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullenhearts/pseuds/sullenhearts
Summary: Set in the late 40s in London, Niall is working as a spy for Mr Styles when he meets the mysterious Prince in a Soho club.Niallerisababe mentioned a spy AU and although this isn't totally that, I hope it has enough elements of that for you :)





	All's Fair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [niallerisababe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niallerisababe/gifts).



The room was cold. There was a bare window, which looked down on the deserted street outside, but if Niall stood in one corner of the window he could just see a glimpse of Frith Street, where people passed by, umbrellas raised against the drizzle. To the right of the window was the kitchenette – just a cold store and a drawer in one cupboard, upon which stood two gas burners, and next to those a cupboard with a cracked enamel sink on top. Above was another cupboard, where a couple of cups hung gaily from the hooks underneath. To the right of the kitchenette was a tall press. When Niall pulled it open it presented itself as a wardrobe. He didn’t have many clothes, so he decided he might as well unpack. He shook a couple of suits free and hung them carefully, then did the same with the shirts. They would need to be ironed. He wondered if the landlady – a formidable lady called Mrs Metcalfe – would do it for him for a few pence, or whether she knew someone who would. He would need to remember to ask her. Once unpacked Niall reached up to put the suitcase on top of the wardrobe. 

The bed lay in the opposite corner of the room to the kitchenette. It was made up as a day bed – several cushions rested against the wall. Niall took a seat on it and bounced experimentally. It was soft, but not uncomfortable. Opposite him was a small desk, perfect for his typewriter, which lay abandoned by the door. There was a ceramic bowl and a small shaving mirror too, although the light wasn’t perfect. To the right of the bed was the door, on the back of which were several hooks, and to the right of the door was the small living area – just a battered armchair and a small table in front of a gas fire. Niall had never had a gas fire before and wasn’t even sure how to light it. He’d investigate later. 

All in all, it wasn’t too bad. Niall had definitely lived in worse places. There wasn’t much space for anything, but fortunately he didn’t have much of anything to put anywhere anyway. He got up again and put his coat on one of the hooks on the back of the door. Mrs Metcalfe had told him she’d left a few groceries for him. Niall went over to check the cupboards. There was a pint of milk – gold top, too – some butter and some bacon in the cold store. In the drawer above were two plates, two forks, two spoons, and two knives. The other cupboard held two saucepans, a clean shiny kettle, some bread, some jam, some tea, and some sugar. Perfect. Niall pulled out the tea and the kettle and filled the kettle from the sink. Only in his last place had he first ever had running water inside the house – in Ireland they had a tap outside and a big range upon which stood the kettle, replenished several times a day from a bucket of water or the tap itself. The kettle had never been far from boiling, left on the range for hours at a time, and the teapot was never empty, ready for whoever might turn up at the door. 

Here the teapot was standing on the windowsill. Niall retrieved it and swilled it out with some of the boiling water. It had seen better days, and it was metal. He preferred an earthenware one himself. Metal changed the taste. Mind you, the tea tasted different in London anyway on account of the water. And the china cups. He wished that the mug he’d brought over with him was still intact, but it had been broken in a skirmish in his last place. He still had a piece of the handle, buried deep inside the lining of his suitcase, because he knew it was a silly thing to keep. 

He sweetened the tea with some sugar. He set the cup on the little desk and then picked up his typewriter. It lived in a makeshift box, made by Niall himself out of some offcuts of a cupboard. One nail was skewiff and liable to tear one’s trousers if it caught, but it did the job. Niall carefully took out the typewriter and put the box under the desk to rest his feet on. The typewriter itself was blue, with lovely cream keys. It stuck sometimes, but it was as familiar to Niall as anything else he owned. 

He would write his mother a letter, and then he would go out and find something to eat, and then he would go to sleep, and while he didn’t know exactly when Mr Styles would contact him, he knew it would be probably tomorrow. 

He sealed the letter in an envelope, ready to pass to Mr Styles who would reroute it before sending it to Ireland. Niall’s parents had been told he was living in Liverpool, so he usually made up some nonsense in his letter about working on the docks. He lived in fear of the day that his mam told him a cousin was coming over, and would he meet them from the boat? 

If or when that happened, Niall planned to tell them he’d moved on to Manchester and was between addresses. He’d have to tell Mr Styles, though, and he couldn’t be sure how it would be taken. It was all too stressful. This assignment was all too stressful. 

Too bad he didn’t have any choice in being here. 

He went over to the window again. It was quieter now on Frith Street. The evening was beginning. Niall’s stomach rumbled. He shrugged his coat on, belting it firmly. He tucked his wallet into his inside pocket. Inside he had several pound notes which were brand spanking new; far too conspicuous for use in this part of London. He would have to try to remember to shove them through the letterbox a few times or something. He had a few shillings left of his own money, from before, so he had enough to buy food. He set out on the street, turning his lapels up against the wind. The wind carried the smell of frying fish on it, so Niall followed it to the corner of Frith Street and Old Compton Street. He bought fish and chips and ate them leaning against the wall, mindful of Mrs Metcalfe’s frowned warnings about creating bad smells in the house. Old Compton Street was dead, but Niall knew it would soon come alive. He had heard the rumours about Old Compton Street, he knew what kind of men drank here, were members of the clubs here. Men like him. Men not like him.

Niall screwed up the newspaper his food had been wrapped in and put it in the bin outside the chippy. He took the long way home, past the club where Mr Styles was sending him. He took care to not loiter past it, but carry on walking purposefully as if he was headed somewhere else the whole time. There wasn’t much for him to see, anyway. A small red canopy proclaimed the name of the club – La Dolce Vita – and there was a tall man with close-cropped hair standing outside. Naill knew he would get past the bouncer with no trouble at all – that’s what Mr Styles was there for, after all. 

Back in his room, he locked the door carefully and did up the chain. He boiled the kettle and had a wash over the sink, then made himself another cup of tea and got into bed. He had a book to read and was hoping to settle his mind a little. Tomorrow would be a long day. He needed to sleep while he could. 

*

The phone ringing woke him up. It was later than he’d thought, later than he’d intended to sleep. The phone was on this landing, on the opposite wall to Niall’s flat, and in his half-awake state he thought it was an alarm and sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding. There was a knock at the door.

“Mr MacNulty!” a voice said. “This call is for you.”

It took Niall a moment to realise Mrs Metcalfe meant him. He would have to get better at recognising the false name. He shrugged on his dressing gown and opened the door a little. “Sorry.”

“I haven’t got all day,” Mrs Metcalfe said. “And if you’re wanting breakfast it’s too late.” With that she headed downstairs, puffing furiously on the cigarette held in a black holder between her lips. 

Niall wedged his door open with a boot and went over to the phone. “MacNulty.”

“Mr MacNulty,” came a familiar voice. Niall couldn’t exactly tell where Mr Styles was from, only that he had flattened Northern English vowels. “I hope the accommodation is satisfactory.”

“Yes, it’s er, yes. Very satisfactory. Thank you.” Niall couldn’t work out how he was supposed to speak to Mr Styles. It was all too confusing. 

“Excellent. You’ll start work this evening. Go to La Dolce Vita and ask for the prince.”

“The prince?”

“Don’t repeat my own words, Mr MacNulty. Listen and absorb them the first time.”

“Right.”

“Loose lips sink ships, after all.”

“Sorry.” Niall blinked at the faded wallpaper above the telephone. 

“Go any time before 10pm, but not while it’s still light. I’ll telephone again tomorrow.”

With that there was a click. Niall stared at the receiver. He was dismissed.

He passed the day much as he’d spent the previous evening. He boiled water and hauled the little tin bath up the stairs to have a proper bath. He didn’t need to shave again; those boyish cheeks were still smooth. He wrote a little, and read a little, and heated a tin of beans on the stove to eat over toast. He drank thirteen cups of tea and hoped he wouldn’t regret it in the club later.

He dressed in his brown suit, and tied the knot in the matching brogues tightly. Who the hell was the prince? What kind of a code name was that? He struggled, as usual, with his tie, but it looked alright. There was colour high in his cheeks but there wasn’t much he could do about that. 

At 9.30pm he shrugged on his macintosh and left the flat. It wasn’t raining so he wouldn’t take his umbrella. He had put some of the fresh notes under his mattress while he slept and they had crumpled a little, but they still looked too new. Niall fiddled one between his fingers as he walked along to the club.

The doorman was around Niall’s age, and white, and pretty beefy, as if he’d lately been a sideshow in a circus as the world’s strongest man. Niall looked him right in the eye, hoping he would pass muster.

“Evening sir,” the doorman said, and he leaned to open the door for Niall. 

“Thank you,” Niall said, trying to sound as English as he possibly could. He stepped through the doorway. The walls were tiled with green tiles that were crazily glazed and cracked. There was a flight of stairs leading down, lit by four sconces on the way. Niall headed down, swallowing furiously to try to quell the nausea rising in his stomach. There was another door at the bottom. Beyond that there was a room, quite large, some fifty feet long by twenty feet wide. At the far end there was a small stage, and on it, three men played music while a girl sang. Her voice was quite sultry and she could definitely sing. To the right, a bar took up nearly all of the wall. There were a few punters sitting there, mostly men. In the middle were several tables, each with a candle in a red holder. There was a red curtain behind the band, too, and although Niall couldn’t be sure he thought the walls looked red too. The wood was dark, mahogany or teak. There was a mirror behind the bar and lights twinkled off the optics. Along the left hand wall were several booths, just private enough for unseen conversation. 

Niall went over to the bar, trying to look more confident than he felt. The bartender, a thin young man with a quiff in his brown hair, smiled at him. “What’ll it be?”

Niall had been expecting a Londoner. He had expected a Cockney accent to come out of that mouth, but instead he’d been greeted with yet more flat vowels. 

“Oh,” he said, nonplussed. “Whiskey. A double.”

“Scots or Irish?”

Niall fought to keep his face straight. He hated Scottish whisky. It wasn’t pure enough for his taste. “Irish, please.”

The bartender nodded and turned around. Niall watched the band for a moment, then turned back to the bartender when the glass was slid towards him. He handed over the note in his hand, barely listening to the price. If the bartender noticed anything odd about the note, he didn’t show it. He came back with Niall’s change. 

“I’m looking for the prince,” Niall said before he could lose his nerve entirely.

Was he wrong, or did the bartender blink a little? He wasn’t sure. 

“He’s in the last booth,” the bartender said, pointing. “Don’t interrupt him ‘til the girl’s finished.”

Niall nodded, but the bartender had turned away. The girl was very good; her voice had a sultry quality to it and she could definitely hold a note. She had bottle blonde hair and was wearing a black dress and pink lipstick. Niall could have watched her for longer, only soon the song finished and she said thank you and left the stage. The band stayed on, playing softly now as background music.

Niall drained his whiskey and strode over to the last booth, trying to give off an air of confidence that he wasn’t feeling. He slid into the booth and looked into the face of the man he knew only as the prince.

He had been expecting a white man, but this person was of South Asian origin. Niall blinked. 

The man smiled a slow smile. “Not who you were expecting.”

Yet more flat, northern vowels. Niall opened his mouth to speak, but found his mouth was dry. The man leaned out of the booth to signal to the barman. 

“No, you’re not,” Niall said eventually. “I’m in London but I keep finding northerners.”

“Oh yeah, you’ll have already met Lou.” 

“He the bartender?”

The man didn’t answer. “Where are you from?”

“Ireland.”

“North or south?”

“The republic.”

The man nodded. “So you’ll understand our struggle.”

Niall couldn’t be sure if he meant India or Pakistan, so he asked.

“I’m Muslim,” the man said. He sipped something clear from a glass which was dripping condensation on to the table. 

Niall assumed that meant he was of Pakistani origin, since he didn’t elaborate. Niall had heard rumours of the violent clashes that had occurred when the two states had separated. Privately, he blamed the British government. He blamed them for a lot of things privately. 

Lou came over with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Alright?”

“Our friend here is Irish,” the prince said.

Niall could swear that Lou rolled his eyes, just a little. He smiled politely. 

“Did Harry send you?” Lou asked. “Mr Styles?”

“Yes,” Niall said. Should he have said that? He hadn’t ever been told to not reveal Mr Styles’ identity. He stared at Lou’s face, trying to decide if he’d said the wrong thing. 

“Oh, you might as well take him,” Lou said eventually. “Quick, before Bebe comes back on.”

The man nodded, and both men shifted out of the booth. Niall followed, not hesitating now, not waiting to ask any questions.

Niall followed the prince towards the back of the stage, where he swished back the red curtain to reveal a door. He opened it, and immediately started down a further staircase, lit only at the bottom.

Niall struggled to keep up with his pace, especially in the dark, but there was a rail at one side to guide him. “You didn’t tell me your name,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

At the bottom of the stairs the man turned and flashed a bright smile. “I’m Zayn. Don’t tell me yours.”

Niall shut his mouth again. Zayn pulled open a door at the bottom of the stairs and ushered Niall through it. 

There was a room with a boxing ring, and in it were several young men – younger than Niall, by the looks of things – each sparring with another. There were white men and black men and Asian men, each in a white singlet and pair of shorts, and black boots tied halfway up their shins. The din was incredible. Niall was astounded he hadn’t been able to hear it from upstairs. 

Zayn turned and flashed that grin again. “Will that do you?”

Niall had no idea what the right answer was. Was this what Mr Styles wanted from him? What did it mean? Would other people know? He understood he was a very small cog in a very large machine, but a boxing club, illegal or otherwise, under a Soho club was hardly the kind of thing he expected the British government to care about. 

He took in as much detail as he could. Zayn moved through the ranks of men – barely more than boys, some of them – dropping a comment here and there. Then he came back to Niall.

“Should we have that whiskey, now?”

They went back upstairs and into the club. It had got busier very suddenly. The woman – did Lou say she was called Bebe? – was back onstage and singing an upbeat number now. There were some women at the tables and they pulled reluctant men on to the dancefloor with them. Zayn’s booth was untouched, the bottle and glasses waiting for them.

“Where are you staying?” Zayn said, only not loudly enough because Niall had to ask him to repeat it. 

“Oh, close by,” Niall said.

“Excellent.” Zayn reached for the bottle. “Let’s go.”

 

*

Niall hadn’t been expecting visitors and his room wasn’t tidy. They had stolen upstairs, Niall mindful of Mrs Metcalfe’s telling him he wasn’t to have any visitors after 8pm. He wasn’t sure if she had meant men, but he wasn’t about to risk her wrath. He unlocked the door and let Zayn in.

“It’s alright,” Zayn said, sounding almost surprised. 

“Sssh,” Niall said, and bolted the chain across the door.

“Why? Landlady a bit of a dragon?”

“A bit, yeah. Tea?”

“Alright.” Zayn shrugged out of his coat and put it on the back of one of the chairs in front of the fire. “Do you mind if I light this?”

“Be my guest,” Niall said, and busied himself with the tea. Under his coat Zayn was wearing only a white shirt. He started now to unbutton his cufflinks and roll up his sleeves. He undid his tie and slid it from around his neck, draping it over his coat.

Niall fancied that he heard the whisper of the silk tie on the cotton shirt, but he can’t have, not over the rattle of the gas burner and the kettle. 

He turned away quickly to take the milk out of the cold cupboard. “Sugar?”

“Yes please,” Zayn said. The fire whooshed into life and Zayn let out a noise of pleasure, and then threw himself into the easy chair on which he’d laid his coat. He leaned back, raising his arms, his body quite fluid against the chair.

“Tea,” Niall said, willing himself to not look at the stranger, willing himself to get his voice back under control. He set the cup down on the little table between the two chairs, and took a seat himself.

“How is old Hazza, anyway?” Zayn asked. He looked at Niall eventually. 

Niall was concentrating very hard on not spilling his tea. “Mr Styles?”

“Is that what he makes you call him?”

Niall didn’t answer. “How do you know him?”

“We served together. Our National Service. You know how it goes.”

Niall swallowed, then nodded. Then he choked on some tea and couldn’t get his breath. He could feel his face turn puce, and he tried desperately to swallow, to breathe, to do anything that was less embarrassing than this. 

Zayn just looked at him from under dark eyelashes. He didn’t move or indeed otherwise react. Niall finally caught his breath, and swallowed some more tea before mopping his mouth with his handkerchief. 

“Is that how you met Lou, too?”

“Louis? No. We just know each other. From about. Being northern you tend to find people from the same place you’re from.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Bradford, in the West Riding. Lou’s from Doncaster. It’s not too far.”

Niall wasn’t familiar with the geography of the north of England, but he nodded anyway. 

Zayn picked up his tea and rested it on his stomach, both hands wrapped around the cup. “Do you mind if I stay?” he asked quietly. “I’ll be quiet. I can sleep here in the chair.”

Niall kept his cool this time. “Of course,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

“So what is your name? Real or fake, I don’t mind.”

“Niall,” Niall said, and didn’t elaborate on which it was. 

They drank most of the bottle of whiskey. Then Niall headed across the hall to the lavatory and when he got back Zayn was already undressed to his vest and trousers, sitting in the chair again. 

“I’ve got a spare sheet,” Niall said quietly, and found it in the press. “It won’t keep you very warm…”

“It’ll help,” Zayn said. He took it and wrapped it around himself, tucking the edges in carefully. 

Niall walked away. He couldn’t let himself look, because he would get tempted and that never ended well. He undressed quietly, and turned the light off before slipping into bed. 

“Night,” Zayn said sleepily. He sounded a very long way away.

“Good night,” Niall said, and turned towards the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest.

In the morning Zayn was already dressed when Niall woke up. There was bread under the grill and he was smiling. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Niall mumbled. His head felt woolly after all the whiskey. 

“Toast and a scrape?” Zayn asked.

Niall had to laugh. “I haven’t heard that phrase in a while.” He got up, reaching for his dressing gown. 

“How long is it since you’ve been home?”

“A couple of years.”

“Where’ve you been? How did you end up working for Harry?”

“I was in prison,” Niall said, ducking his head. 

“Well, shit.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Yes.” Zayn pulled the grill pan from under the grill. “You don’t have to tell me about it.”

“It was something and nothing. But I got my sentence commuted if I agreed to work for the government. The British government.”

“Why?” Zayn looked up. 

“Some stuff going down in my home town at the time. They offered… It was better than prison.”

“I served a year,” Zayn said. He tried to pick up the hot toast and then swore under his breath. 

Niall laughed. “Hot?”

“Very.” Zayn laughed too and slid the toast on to a plate. 

Niall went over to the chair and sat down, picking up the butter and jam on his way. “What did you do?”

“Robbery.” Zayn sat down in the chair he’d slept in and handed Niall a plate of toast. 

“Oh.” Niall didn’t know what to say to that. “Is that how you ended up at the club?”

“Round and about.” Zayn didn’t say anything else, so Niall just buttered his toast and handed the knife over. 

After they’d eaten Zayn excused himself. “Why don’t you come to the club tonight? Watch the boxing yourself?”

“Alright,” Niall said. Surely that would be good for Mr Styles’ needs. 

“8 ish?”

Niall nodded, and got up when Zayn did.

Zayn touched his arm on the way out and gave him a big smile. 

Niall ignored the washing up and got back into his bed, pulling the sheets right up to his chin, while he tried not to think.

*

Niall had been caught buying sex off a boy a couple of years younger than him. He now thought it was a sting, that the boy had been a police informant or something. It didn’t make sense that Niall had been caught the way he had. He’d been hauled off by the Gardai and subjected to the most horrible questioning. He still had the scars, both mental and physical. And then he’d been sentenced, and no one in his family had come to see him. His mam had written, eventually, but she had made it clear that he wasn’t welcome to go home. 

And then the pardon. He didn’t know what had happened. He only knew that he’d been given an ill-fitting blue suit and shuffled out of his cell and into a van. They had arrived at a big house, made out of grey stone, somewhere in the Irish countryside, somewhere Niall didn’t recognise. When he’d dared to ask one of the guards what he was doing, they only shrugged. 

Then a man had arrived, smiling widely to shake Niall’s hand. His suit wasn’t quite like suits other men wore; his hair was a little longer than usual. He had bright green eyes that Niall felt got the measure of him immediately. 

“Come with me, please,” the man said.

Niall followed behind, his joints still stiff from being handcuffed in the van. He was led into an oak-panelled office and the man took a seat behind a huge oak desk.

“Have a seat,” the man said. He was well-spoken but his accent betrayed something of the north of England. 

Niall did, feeling filthy against the soft seat. 

“It’s quite alright,” the man said. “I’m Mr Styles. You mustn’t worry.”

“Mustn’t I?”

“The British government needs some help, and, well, your name has come up in conversation. You’ve no previous record except for your current sentence, and we can make that disappear. All you have to do is agree.”

“Agree to what?” Niall frowned. 

“To helping us. Your sentence would be quashed, today. You would go free, but you’d go to Mullingar and do some intelligence work for us.”

“You want me to be a spy for the British?” Niall was incredulous.

“In not so many words, yes.” Mr Styles’ eyes were boring right into Niall. “Listen,” he said. “I think it’s very unfair, what happened to you.” 

“Do you,” Niall said tonelessly. 

“I was abroad during the war. I know the form. Men find comfort in other men, sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with it.” Harry said, and his eyes slid away from Niall’s. He looked out of the window for more than a few seconds, quite lost. 

Niall coughed gently.

“Yes, anyway,” Harry said, regaining his composure. He shuffled some papers on his desk, papers which had nothing at all to do with this, or with Niall at all. “I trust you’ll be discreet.”

“Yes,” Niall said, and although he waited a little longer nothing more came. 

Harry pressed on an intercom and a different man came to get him. Niall was led into a warm room and fed, and given a bed to sleep on, and the next day he was taken home to Mullingar. The streets felt so familiar, and he longed to go and knock on the door of his parents’ house, longed to go and see his aunties and cousins. He knew he couldn’t. He knew that even if he could, he wouldn’t be welcome. He had done the intelligence that Mr Styles had asked for, and was rewarded with some money and a train ticket to Dublin, where he laid low for a few weeks, and wondered what was going to happen next.

Then came a phone call from Mr Styles again. “I need you to go to London,” Mr Styles said.

“What for?”

“I just need a little bit more of a favour.”

And that was the thing, he did make it sound like Niall was doing him a favour. Niall agreed, so then the next day he was given better clothes, and more money, and taken on a boat to Wales, and from there chauffer driven to London. He was set alone at Paddington Station, with directions to his new bedsit. He had walked there. And it was only now, two days later, that he considered that he could have escaped from his room in Dublin and taken his chances there or along the back roads of Ireland. Eventually he would have found somewhere he liked. But escape hadn’t even crossed his mind. All he had thought about was the fact that his sentence would be quashed and that, soon, he would be a free man. 

He made his way along to the club by 8pm. There was a different doorman this time, one who barely looked in Niall’s direction as he opened the door for him. Niall bounced down the stairs, pleased by the thought of seeing Zayn again. 

Louis tipped his head in greeting. “Whiskey?”

“Just a tonic water, please.”

“Yeah, drinking with Zayn’ll do that to you.” Louis grinned. “No charge,” he said when he passed the glass over. 

Niall frowned, but didn’t argue. “Is Zayn here?”

“Last booth,” Louis said, and turned to another customer. 

Zayn smiled up at him when Niall got to the booth. “You’re early.”

“I’m sorry,” Niall said.

Zayn shook his head. “Come on.”

They headed downstairs. The room had the same smell of men it had had the day before, and it was warm. Niall took off his coat and draped it over his arm. The doorman from the previous night was in the ring, in a white singlet with red bands on it. Niall could see several tattoos on his arms and legs, including a big rose on his left hand. 

“This is Liam,” Zayn said, smiling.

“We’ve met,” Liam said, but he leaned down to shake Niall’s hand anyway. “Are you boxing or betting?”

“What?” Niall asked.

“You’ve got to do one or the other,” Liam said. “You either bet on us or you box.”

“I don’t box,” Niall said, but it wasn’t entirely true. He had grown up boxing with his grandfather and uncles. Even his dad had done it at one time, and his brother was pretty good at it. People knew his name for miles around. But that was a long time ago, when Niall was a teenager, and it wasn’t something he was keen to get back into. He could remember the jabs his brother had taken at him when he had teased Niall, when he had got too close to the truth about Niall and wanted to raise his brother to anger. Niall never wanted to box again. 

He fumbled for some notes in his pocket. “I’ll bet on you,” he said.

“Good man,” Zayn said, and clapped his shoulder. “Let me take that for you.” He plucked the notes out of Niall’s fingers. “Fucking hell, did Harry give you these? Did he print ‘em himself? Fucking loser.”

Liam snorted a laugh and then straightened up to talk to his coach, an older man wearing a pork pie hat. The man gave him some gloves and a towel.

Niall and Zayn moved to the side of the room, where a couple of benches were set up. Niall took a seat and then loosened his tie.

“It is warm, isn’t it,” Zayn said. He shrugged off his jacket and began rolling up his shirtsleeves. He had tattoos too, black ink on his brown skin. Zayn caught him looking. “You don’t have any?”

“No,” Niall said.

“Everyone who’s been in prison needs a tattoo,” Zayn laughed. “We’ll get you sorted.”

Niall didn’t like to argue so he just laughed. He felt it bubble in his stomach and caught Zayn’s eye to smile at him properly.

He was rewarded with that flash of white teeth again. 

The match was pretty good. Liam was fast, and tight, and got in most of the blows. His opponent was chunkier than him, and slower, but when he got a jab in Liam reverberated with the strength of it. 

Niall winced. “He’s a good right hook.”

“He has,” Zayn said. 

“Do you box yourself?”

“I grew up in Bradford, Niall. It was obligatory.”

Niall laughed. A man came over with a tray and gave them a drink each. When Niall tasted it he thought it was gin, although it was a different kind to ones he was used to. He was still hot, so he took off his jacket and rolled his tie up to put it in his pocket. He drained one drink and the same man as before brought over another. 

Liam was almost down and out. When he took another blow he stood woozily against the ropes for a few seconds. The referee was ready to blow his whistle when Liam rallied, bouncing up on his feet, jabbing his opponent with a volley of fists. The man went down, the ropes giving against his weight, and the referee counted to ten and blew his whistle.

“Good match,” Zayn said. He drained his glass – possibly their fourth? 

Niall could feel the alcohol in his chest; he hadn’t eaten enough for tea. “Are you hungry?” he said.

“Famished,” Zayn said. “Let’s get out of here.” He stood up and led Niall out through a back way and up a flight of steps back on to the street. 

Outside, it was cooler than in the club, but it still wasn’t cold and Niall didn’t put his coat on. They wandered this way and that, and then Niall realised they were on Old Compton Street. 

“Have you ever been in one of these clubs?” he asked, emboldened by the gin.

“Yes,” Zayn said simply. “I didn’t have you down as that kind of man, Niall.”

“I’m sorry,” Niall said, but he wasn’t sure why he was apologising. 

“I’m not,” Zayn said, and then pressed him into a doorway and kissed him. Softly at first, like he was checking it was alright, but then deeply, his tongue sliding against Niall’s, his fingers on Niall’s shoulder, then his face, then his hair. 

Niall felt like crying when they pulled away. This wasn’t like it had been before. He wasn’t paying for this; Zayn had kissed him of his own free will and not because he’d been promised a pound afterwards. 

“Can I come to yours?” Zayn asked.

Niall just nodded. They headed back that way, stole up the stairs again, and undressed each other in the darkness, the moon glinting in the window. Zayn’s skin was soft, but he had muscles underneath. Presumably from boxing. Niall grew hard thinking about Zayn boxing, thinking about how intense he would look, how his body would look.

Zayn smirked. “’Ello,” he said, dropping the aitch. He moved closer, his hands on Niall’s back. He was hard too. 

Niall swallowed nervously. This wasn’t like it had been at all. It was better. It was so much better.

“Lie down,” Zayn said quietly.

“We mustn’t wake anyone.”

“We won’t,” Zayn said reassuringly.

Niall got under the sheets. They felt damp against his warm skin and he shivered.

“It’s alright,” Zayn said. “Have you done this before?”

“Yes, yeah. I have.”

Zayn followed him into bed, settling himself half on top of Niall. He had a little tub of petroleum jelly in one hand, and when he used it on Niall it was warmed by his body and not cold like Niall was expecting. 

It had been too hurried when he’d done this before, but now Zayn took his time, teasing Niall, stroking him slickly, kissing him, building it up to a point where Niall thought he would go mad if Zayn didn’t just –

And then he did. Niall felt his eyes widen at Zayn and was rewarded with a soft smile. 

“If it hurts I’ll stop,” Zayn said.

Niall nodded, feeling mute, feeling like he would never stop this, not for anything. 

Zayn built up the rhythm and Niall found himself moaning, hearing the noise obscenely in his own ears, but he couldn’t stop himself because it felt too good, it felt pretty peachy actually.

He knew he was too loud when Zayn laughed and put his hand over Niall’s mouth. “Shush or you’ll wake the whole house.”

Afterwards, Niall wondered if Zayn would leave, or make his excuses and sleep in the chair again, but instead Zayn cleaned himself up when Niall did and then slipped back under the covers with him.

“I know it’s not a very big bed…” he said.

“You’re alright,” Niall said, and hoped that when he woke up Zayn would be hugging him.

*

“Did you have a man in your room?” Mrs Metcalfe asked at breakfast time the next morning. She plonked Niall’s plat down in front of him in a very discourteous manner.

Niall felt his stomach clench. He couldn’t lie to her, but surely she couldn’t be that angry, or she’d have already thrown him out. She wouldn’t be feeding him breakfast. What was he supposed to say? 

“Only, I thought I heard him leave last night,” Mrs Metcalfe cut in before he had chance to speak. 

“Oh, yes,” Niall said quickly. “Yes, he’s a pal. He came back for a nightcap and left around midnight.”

Mrs Metcalfe nodded. “I thought so.”

She didn’t say any more, so did that mean it was alright? Was he forgiven?

He barely tasted his breakfast, swallowing each bit down before he’d chewed properly. 

He went back up to his room and tried to write, only the words wouldn’t come and he ended up banging the keys of the typewriter in frustration. He was stuck, waiting here until he had a phone called from Mr Styles. Unless he should go to the club again tonight? Zayn had snuck out before 6am, when the grey light was just seeping into the room, when they could already hear the barrow boys setting up their wares at the market a few streets away. Zayn had dressed quickly and silently, leaving his top shirt buttons undone and draping his jacket over his arm. His hair was stuck up after he had slept on it, and he’d raked his fingers through it, leaving it at a very debonair angle. 

And then, when he’d pulled back the chain on Niall’s door and was about to tiptoe down the stairs, he leaned in the doorway and kissed Niall, properly, a kiss with feeling. 

Niall bit his lip. He didn’t know what to do with this feeling in his chest, either. 

He laid on the bed instead. He had yesterday’s newspaper so he read a little of it. He supposed he must have fallen asleep, because when the phone rang on the landing he started in surprise. 

The man in the room opposite answered it. Niall had spoken to him on a couple of occasions, but he kept himself to himself. He was older than Niall, around forty, and had a lived-in look to his skin. He smelt of cigarettes and cheap brandy. He knocked on Niall’s door.

“Phone’s for you.”

Niall nodded and went to answer it.

“You’re doing well,” an approving voice said. Niall fancied he could even hear a smile in it. “Keep tailing the Prince. He’ll talk eventually.” With that, Mr Styles put the phone down and all Niall could hear was the dial tone. 

At least now he had some direction. Keeping close to Zayn was hardly likely to be a problem.

He washed and dressed and headed down to the club, even though it was way before opening time. This time, he went round the back to where they’d left the day before, and knocked softly.

“Alright?” Zayn said when he opened the door. He smiled widely. “You can’t keep away.”

“If you’re busy I’ll go…”

“No, don’t worry. I’m just about to go home, though. Come with me.”

“Where do you live?” 

“Only a couple of streets away. Come on. I’ll shout you some tea later too.”

Niall smiled. “You’re on.”

They headed away from the club silently, crossing busy streets to a quiet, tree lined crescent. The big, white houses were all divided into flats. Zayn bounded up the steps of one and let them in. 

The flat was on the second floor and it was huge. 

“Do you live here alone?” Niall asked in wonder, peeking into the living room. 

“Fuck no,” Zayn said. “Tea? Liam and Louis live here too. Bebe’s staying here at the moment, although I’m not sure for how long.”

“Tea would be lovely.” Niall took a seat in the kitchen and watched Zayn move about the kitchen to make some. 

He put the kettle on the stove and waited for it to sing. He was so careful in each of his movements. Niall had a mad thought about what it would be like to dance with him. 

“What?” Zayn asked, when he turned, feeling Niall’s eyes on him.

“Do you ever go dancing?”

“Do you want to go dancing?”

Niall shrugged, looking up at Zayn and trying to say yes. 

“There’s a place… Yes, let’s go later.”

“Alright,” Niall agreed, and took the cup of tea Zayn offered him. 

*

Old Compton Street at midnight was both thrillingly unfamiliar and yet somehow cosy. Music spilt out from behind closed doors, people wandered drunkenly along the street, and on one corner girls gyrated in a shop front lit from behind with red bulbs. Niall wanted to take it all in, wanted to sit and watch everyone to see them go about their lives. A girl in a black feather boa walked past laughing loudly at her companion, who Niall was pretty sure was a woman in a pinstriped suit.

Zayn raised his eyebrows, amused. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” Niall said, and then felt brave enough to reach out for Zayn’s hand. They were in a darkened enough corner, and he doubted very much that anyone cared enough about them to make a fuss. 

“I thought we were going dancing,” Zayn said, but he leaned in for a kiss anyway. 

Dancing was better than Niall had imagined. He wasn’t much of a dancer himself, but Zayn had loose hips and led Niall around in a passable dance, his hand on Niall’s lower back. Niall was sweaty and had removed his jacket and tie, and Zayn’s hand on his back felt like fire, like the heat of it spreading through his entire body. 

There were other dancers around, other men in couples or in groups, laughing and drinking as they danced. There was a jazz band playing, the music fast and dizzying. Niall wished life could be like this forever. He thought that maybe, for the first time in his life, he was truly happy.

And so it went for the next couple of weeks. He met Zayn either at the club or at his flat, and they either watched a boxing match or went dancing or sat in the corner of La Dolce Vita drinking whiskey and laughing and covertly holding each other’s hands under the table. Then they would retire to Zayn’s flat and make love and then smoke cigarettes as the sun came up. They would fall asleep curled together, Niall’s lips pressed into the nape of Zayn’s neck or Zayn’s hand stroking his hip. 

One night, just as they were falling asleep, Niall found himself saying, “I like you. I like you a lot.”

He wasn’t sure at first if Zayn had heard him. Then Zayn huffed a laugh and said, “I like you too, love.”

Liam greeted him as a friend now, and on one occasion in the club Louis said, “You must be alright. Zayn doesn’t trust people easily, you know.”

Niall hadn’t known really what to say. He was still reporting to Mr Styles on events at the club, but he hadn’t been asked anything more specific and he kept his reporting general. He managed to quash his conscience by telling himself he wasn’t saying anything about anyone’s personal life. Mr Styles had to have already known about the boxing. It was fine. It would all be fine. 

And then one night Zayn was busy after the band had finished, and told Niall he would see him tomorrow. He even leaned over the table in the booth and kissed Niall softly. 

“Don’t worry.”

“It’s fine, of course,” Niall said, and smiled as they said goodbye. He raised his hand in a wave at Louis as he left. 

It wasn’t late, but they had been keeping irregular hours and Niall felt tired, so he headed back to Mrs Metcalfe’s. The house was quiet already, so Niall slipped his shoes off in the hall and went silently up the stairs. 

His door was ajar. He stopped in the corridor and blinked at it. Surely he had locked it when he’d left earlier? Maybe Mrs Metcalfe had left it open when she’d been in to clean or something. He was cautious, though, because now the house seemed suspiciously silent, like it knew something he didn’t.

He went in and reach to snap the light on.

Mr Styles was sitting on the bed. 

“Hell,” Niall said, clutching his chest in surprise. 

“Mr MacNulty,” Mr Styles said. 

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Niall said. 

“I know.” Mr Styles stood up and went over to the window. 

All of Niall’s things were packed back into the cases they’d come in. Even his typewriter. What was going on? Fear spread through Niall. Did Mr Styles know about Zayn? Was he about to be arrested again? He wouldn’t cope with prison again, he couldn’t go back there… This was awful. Too awful. And he hadn’t even had chance to say goodbye to Zayn properly, either. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, wondering if he could make things better that way. “I’ve been in the club, I was just–”

“Niall,” Mr Styles said softly. His hair, usually slicked back to perfection, was beginning to curl on his forehead. He pushed it back, and smiled.

Niall had heard some stories about him from the others and felt a glimmer of hope. He didn’t smile back, but maybe… maybe?

“I do what I can,” Mr Styles said. “I try to help those subjected to unjust laws.”

Niall winced. This was the closest anyone had come to talking about what he had done, why he had been in prison. While there, he’d had rude words thrown at him and jokes from his fellow prisoners whenever he was allowed near them. No one had ever said anything about it being unjust. But it felt unjust. Niall wasn’t a pervert or a child molester – he was simply a man who liked sexual relations with other men. 

And now Mr Styles – Harry – was saying that he thought the law by which Niall had been prosecuted was unjust.

And not only that, but that Niall wasn’t the first person he’d helped in this way. 

Niall swallowed. “Thank you?”

“You’ve done well, Mr Horan.”

The use of his real name shocked him. “Have I?”

“Excellently. You’re dismissed. You’re free to go.”

“What… what did I do?”

“You helped me,” Harry said. “Well. You helped me enough for me to convince two governments that you’re a reformed character.”

“Really?” Niall felt faint. This was all too much. 

“Really.” 

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” Harry smiled widely. “Come on, get going.”

Niall picked up his things, balancing his typewriter case awkwardly on one hip. “Where do I go?” Maybe the cost of being free was to be that he would be sent home, or somewhere else. The pang of trading his freedom for Zayn surprised him. 

“Anywhere you like,” Harry said. “I hear Mr Malik may need a new lodger.”

Niall stared at him, feeling colour rise in his cheeks. “Oh.”

“Please don’t worry,” Harry said gently. “Your convictions are gone, you’re a free man. Go. Enjoy your life.”

“Thank you,” Niall said, stuttering, struggling to take all of this in.

“Tell the boys I said hello,” Harry said. “You can tell them the truth, you know. You can trust them. I like the club. Maybe I’ll see you in there one night.” With that, he came past Niall, touched his arm, and winked, and then left the room. 

Niall could hear him whistling all the way down the stairs. 

He could go anywhere. He would go to Zayn. He laughed, feeling a little hysterical, and left the little bedsit.


End file.
